


Ink & Gold: A Companion Piece

by jellysharkbat



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, M/M, Not Beta'd, Reconciliation...sort of, mentions of Cullen's past, wing!fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-03
Updated: 2019-05-03
Packaged: 2020-02-16 17:14:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18695845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jellysharkbat/pseuds/jellysharkbat
Summary: Black feathers were cursed; a sign of the Maker's displeasure.





	Ink & Gold: A Companion Piece

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Elpie (Horribibble)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Horribibble/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Ink & Gold](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/478702) by Elpie. 



> This is my first time posting anything to AO3. I'm still new to the formatting, so if anything looks off or strange, please let me know and I'll fix it. Thank you for reading!
> 
> And Elpie, I hope you like this! :)

He was around the age of six when he noticed them for the first time. 

Bran had been yanking on his feathers with his sticky, chubby fingers all day and finally managed to pull a couple out, which  _hurt_. Cullen felt tears prickle at his eyes and he was desperately tempted to return the favor and yank on the little downy nubs growing out of Bran’s back. He’d grabbed his feathers away from Bran instead, who began wailing almost immediately but Cullen didn’t care as he scrubbed his cheeks clean of the tears that had fallen down them. 

He let his mother soothe his bratty baby brother, who he didn’t even _want_ by the way, while Mia helped rub the sore spot on his wing. Cullen looked at the feathers in his hand and noticed that one of them wasn’t the warm brown he was used to. It was black. 

Really, really black.  

Ebony, Mia called it, proud to be able to identify just how black it was, when he showed it to her. Cullen was dutifully impressed. There was even a rainbow in it, when he held it up to the light- a  _sheen_ , Mia said- the same way puddles in the sunlight had rainbows if you tilted your head the right away. It was...pretty. 

Neither one of them knew why it was in his wings however. Mia’s own feathers sometimes had a yellow-ish feather growing out of them, but Cullen had always assumed that it was because she was a  _girl_. Girls were weird to begin with, and hard to talk to, and he always felt hot when he talked to Mia’s friends. Of course, their wings would be just as weird. 

His mother wasn’t as impressed by the feather as Mia was when he showed it to her. If anything, she looked a bit scared, but she raked her fingers through Cullen’s curls and told him that it was nice and that he should go play with Mia now. 

He did. 

Later that night, his father sat him down and told him that the feather from his wing wasn’t something he should brag about. If he could, he should do his best to get rid of them, and maybe the Maker wouldn’t be so mad. Cullen didn’t understand, and he didn’t want to pluck any feathers. It hurt bad enough when Bran did it. There was no way he was going to do it to himself! His father sighed and didn’t argue. He just looked a little sad. His parents gave him weird looks for the next few days. Cullen didn’t like it. 

 

By the time he was nineteen, he knew better, and he despised the black feathers that littered his wings. Every time he noticed that a new one had grown in, he’d grit his teeth together and dutifully pluck and burn it.  

He tried not to think about his mate, whose wings were undoubtedly black as night. What kind of person must they be to have- 

No. No, he wasn’t going to think about it. He just needed to make sure that no one else knew. He wasn’t going to let anyone know about his black feathers, especially not his fellow Templars. They would rightfully see it was the curse it was; a sign of the Maker’s fury.  

Cullen didn’t know why the Maker or Andraste would curse him like this. He was a good son of the Chantry; he was as devout as any other Templar. Wasn’t his faith to be rewarded? Wasn’t he one of the righteous and just? Why would They do this to him? Why would They make his other half so...so... _horrible_? What could They possibly have planned for him? Cullen lost track of the number of times he prayed to find this out, only to receive no answer. A couple of months later, Cullen received his answer. 

The Circle fell. 

So did the Templars. Everyone fell. 

Except for him. 

He was experiencing the Maker’s wrath firsthand, and he wished he would just die. 

 

At twenty-five, Cullen’s wings were more or less back to normal. His feathers had grown back in, the bones had long since healed, although they still ached from time to time, especially during long flights. Looking at them though, no one would guess the trauma his wings had gone through. 

The trauma  _he_ went through. He woke up most nights, gasping and screaming, sweating fiercely. On those nights, he desperately searched his wings for any sign of black feathers. If he found any, he ripped them out with a sick sense of satisfaction. The pain grounded him, and he hoped that his other half was proud of this curse. 

To the Void with them. To the Void with them all. 

The nights left him terrified. The days left him stressed and frustrated.

Both with the Order and Hawke, who would not stop being a pain in Cullen’s ass. Maker, but he really should just throw the man in the deepest dungeon he could find... 

He never did though. He knew that Hawke was necessary. Kirkwall needed him. Needed his brand of meddling, even if it did drive Cullen insane most of the time. He supposed the good thing about Hawke was that Cullen wasn’t left with too much time to brood on his own. He needed to make excuses to Meredith on why the man was still running around, on top of carrying out her orders and maintaining vigilance over the mages in the Gallows. 

Something was happening, had been happening for awhile now. What, he didn’t know but he was seeing too many blood mages crop up. Too many problems that shouldn’t exist if the Templars were carrying out their duties correctly. 

Even Meredith was beginning to act more erratic than usual. Stress, no doubt from all the increasing problems and pressure, but still... 

Cullen sighed. He’d have to keep a closer eye on things from now on. Otherwise there would be far worse problems down the line that they’d all have to deal with. He’d dealt with enough as it was. 

He didn’t need more than what was already on his plate. The feathers that he plucked were of little importance compared to everything else going on in his life.

 

He was thirty when he finally came face to face with his mate. 

A magister. 

A  _Tevinter_ _magister_. 

The irony wasn’t lost on him, and he couldn’t pretend that he was pleased to be in the man’s presence. Lord Pavus was elitist, arrogant, vain, cocky, and precisely what the Inquisition needed if his information was correct. He’d already helped the Herald once after all. 

That wasn’t something Cullen could just dismiss. Personal feelings aside, his sense of duty wouldn’t allow it. The man’s help became even more important when Haven fell and they were forced to flee into the Frostback Mountains. 

The wind bit at them all bitterly, and the snow made their wings heavy and wet. The rapidly dwindling supplies his people had been able to grab wasn’t helping morale either. Still, for all their misery, Cullen had to admit that there would be far less of them if not for Lord Pavus. 

He owed the man a thank you, even though he  _really_ didn’t want to go near him. 

It would have to wait until they found proper shelter. Thankfully. Cullen wasn’t afraid to admit that he was grateful for the delay. 

By the time they settled in Skyhold and set up a sort of headquarters for the Inquisition that wouldn’t be easily breached, thanks to the Frostbacks, he’d run out of excuses. Lord Pavus deserved some gratitude, whether Cullen liked it or not. It was time to face his mate properly, and not during the frantic moments of battle. 

A runner told him that the Tevinter could be found in the library, of all places. Maybe he liked- No. No, Cullen didn’t care what he liked. He didn’t. He was just going to go there, say thank you, and retreat as quickly as his feet and wings allowed. 

His feet seemed to grow heavier the closer he got to Lord Pavus. He didn’t want to talk to him, didn’t want to discover just what kind of man his mate was. He wasn’t even sure that he was ready to see his own feathers in the man’s glossy black wings. 

He’d allowed the black feathers to remain in his own over the last year, but he sometimes still flinched at the sight of them after a bad nightmare. The temptation to rip them out was as powerful as ever. How pleased would his mate be, to see black littering Cullen’s wings and knowing what misery it brought him? 

But he didn’t gloat, like Cullen was half expecting him to. In fact, he seemed almost reserved. Possibly even nervous, if the quick flitting of his eyes were any indication. He accepted Cullen’s gratitude easily enough, and even went as far as to say that Cullen was more than welcome to forget the half-slurred words he’d uttered back at Haven. 

Words Cullen had promptly forgotten about in the midst of everything that had happened over the past several days. 

Words that Cullen spent the next few days puzzling over, as he trained new recruits and dug into what was quickly becoming a never-ending pit of paperwork. 

Surely an evil man wouldn’t remark on the beauty of someone else’s wings? Not that Cullen’s were anything particularly special, not really, but...  

Still. 

Lord Pavus-  _Dorian_ \- had thought they were, even in a fit of delirium, as the other man had called it. The thought that someone would find his wings beautiful caused his entire face to heat up. He was grateful that no one else was around to see him blushing so fiercely. 

Maybe Cullen should seek him out again. Perhaps invite him to a game of chess.  

Cullen had been wrong about plenty of things in his life. Perhaps he was wrong about his mate too. 


End file.
